


The Talisman

by accol



Series: Stiles and his Bat [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dreams, M/M, Stiles Uses A Baseball Bat, The Nematon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 04:21:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2136828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accol/pseuds/accol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles needs his bat back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Talisman

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://38.media.tumblr.com/e19307d1677ed2b33349db78448a76f7/tumblr_moef50VEib1r8mmrfo1_500.png) picture. Originally posted [here](http://accol-fics.tumblr.com/post/94721672131/stiles-needs-his-bat-back-its-not-that).

Stiles needs his bat back.  

It’s not that he  _plays_  baseball.  He used to play.  Now physical exertion takes the form of running for his life, or lacrosse.  (Sometimes both at once.  Good times at BHHS.)  Probably it’s more accurate to say that he watches other people play lacrosse.  Wereanimals, mostly, from the sidelines, while putting strategic suggestions in Coach’s earhole from down the bench.  Occasionally he gets the ball and miracles involving the net happen.  ( _Stiles_  and  _scoring_  together as a unified thing is basically inexplicable as far as he’s concerned.)  

But, baseball.   _That_  is Stiles’ thing.  Save four, maybe five, people who actually work for the franchise, he knows more about the Mets than anyone.  It’s been that way for years.  Stuff to fill in the spaces between the other thoughts.  Stats make for a good diversion while his brain grinds through the latest, greatest supernatural crap.  (Which, speaking of that, Stiles strongly suspects Recker has a little suped up something-something on his side after that homer the other night.  …Three Red Bulls and 3 o’clock in the morning made that sound completely on target yesterday.) 

So, he needs the bat.  Dad gave it to him after Mom died.  Playing catch kept Dad off the bottle.  Outgrew the glove.  Still has it, though.  The oiled, sweated leather smells too much like…  _good_.  (Stiles keeps it under his bed like a talisman.  Shoving it into his pillowcase was the only thing that slowed the nightmares.)  The crack of the wooden bat, the ring of the metal one was therapy for both of them after she died.  

Good ol’ Woody gave his life (rest his ashy soul) almost taking out an alpha.  (Hey, that’s definitely how it went down.)  The metal one kept a ton of dirt off his dad and Melissa.  Yay for not getting crushed to death.  Always a good thing.  

People who think baseball is boring are obviously wrong.

Yeah.  Stiles  _needs_  his bat.  Now.

He dreamt about it last night, dark and tight, under his bed where it should be, and he slept like a freakin’ baby.  

Instead it’s under the Nematon.  Stiles’ absolutely favorite place in the whole wide world.

_Great._

And, of course, the root cellar door is already hanging open.  A big, black maw of  _nope_.  Logic, that little devil on Stiles’ shoulder, tells him there’s no way to tell if it was opened from the outside or pushed open from the inside.  The much bigger devil on his other shoulder, let’s call him Impulsiveness, says, “No big.  You’ll be in and out.  Go for it, bro.” 

Cautiously, eyes skittering over the ground, looking for a branch or a rock or a machete…  ”Hello?”  

He bunches his fists up and inches closer, wondering how close the bat is to the door.  Maybe he  _could_  just grab it without really going inside.  But, what if something grabbed his arm while he was reaching in there—

 ”Stiles?”  Derek’s head pops up out of the darkness like some kind of super sexy Whack-a-Mole. 

"Oh my  _God_.”  Stiles flails, then doubles over and gulps air.  Good thing he didn’t have that machete just now.  ”Seriously with the surprise Derek-ing.”

Derek’s eyebrows go up and then down again.  It’s a whole eyebrow extravaganza.  And  _he_  has Stiles’ bat.  

 _Whoa_.  ”My—”

"I was getting your—"  

Stiles squints.  Derek’s fingers loosen and tighten around the bat’s shaft. “You—?  I had a dream.”  

Again with the eyebrows.  ”A dream?”

"About the bat.  Not about—"  He gestures generally at the all-around super sexy before realizing what he’s doing.  Totally different night, totally different dream.  Stiles’ face is probably on fire right now.  That had been a good dream.

"Weird."  

"Which part?"

Derek huffs a little laugh.  He gets the joke.  Life in Beacon Hills is a whole  _pile_  of weird garnishing another tasty pile of weird.  

Derek thrusts the bat out to him.  ”The part where Mom told me I should give this back to you.”

"Your mom."

"There was this thing with claws."  Derek waves his hand near the back of his neck and then gives up on an explanation.  "I had a dream too."

Stiles’ eyebrows have their turn to do the thing.  He and Derek are both holding the bat, still half in half out of the Nematon’s mouth.  

"You had a dream.  About me."  Because, let’s face it, that is at least one of the things Stiles is going to take home from this conversation.

Take it right home and into his bedroom with a bottle of hand lotion.  Along with a very vivid memory of Derek’s pink ears right now.  Wow. Ok.

Derek presses the bat more firmly into Stiles’ hand and comes the last step up out of the root cellar.  Stiles is rooted to the ground.  For the first split second it’s because he is surprised.  After that it’s because he’s an awkward, baiting little shit and he needs to  _know_ about any and all dreams. 

It means Derek has to press close.  A year ago, he would have scowled and/or shoved Stiles out of the way.  Now, he lingers.

There is a whole world of oxygen out there, but none right here.

"Thanks," Stiles manages to say after the quiet gets too excruciating.  So, probably half a second of standing this close to Derek Hale.  "I wasn’t sure how I was going to support the roof."  (Soon, Stiles figures, his awkwardly timed boner could do the trick.)  "Good thing you were here.  Really good."

Derek takes a deep breath.  God help Stiles, it looks like Derek is savoring it.  Finally, slowly, Derek lets go of the bat and steps back to a more bro-like distance.  ”Glad you didn’t get crushed under a ton of dirt.”

"Right back atcha."  

They share long-suffering smiles about Mexico.  Freakin’ Mexico, man.  A whole other pile of weird holes in the ground with associated creepy vegetation.  

Stiles fills the pause.  ”So, thanks.”  He lifts the bat.  ”Mets game at my place?”

Derek smiles, more broadly this time, tension releasing from his features.  ”Sure.”  He should smile more.  

"You should smile more."  Whoops.  

But Derek does.  ”Shut up.”  But there are no claws.  

"You know I can’t."

"Yeah, I do." 

They could both use a night off of the Beacon Hills cycle-o’-crap. Together over baseball would be a good place to start.


End file.
